


life's but a walking shadow

by SydneyCarton



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Diego does not approve, Diego intercepts police radio, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Ghosts, Good Brother Diego Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Klaus Hargreeves Deserves Better, Klaus must be protected at all costs, Protective Diego Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 17:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyCarton/pseuds/SydneyCarton
Summary: Here he is—a junkie with nothing to his name except used needles and few bags of pills and powder at the bottom of his coat pockets—mired in a bog of addiction into which he walked willfully. How easy it would be, to sink until a roof of water concealed him from everything he’s been running away from.***Klaus wanders to the edge and Diego pulls him back again.





	life's but a walking shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was heavily inspired by William Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury as well as Albert Camus' essay on The Myth of Sisyphus. If you're familiar with either see if you can spot some references and quotes!
> 
> I actively tried to emulate the writing style of The Sound and The Fury in this, which is why there's less punctuation than usual and a lot of italics jumping around in time. 
> 
> I watched The Umbrella Academy on Netflix in 2 days and I LOVE IT SO. MUCH. It's everything superhero movies/tv shows try to be: gritty, emotional, funny, etc.  
> The characters are amazing and KLAUS I love him with a fiery passion.  
> Anyway, I really hope they renew it for a second season. I mean, considering how many people loved it it would be crazy if they didn't!!  
> Thank you so much for reading <3

Snow falls like ashes from the white sky. The bridge is empty  _ alone he was alone with them  _ and his breath left his mouth like curling smoke. He could smell the city metallic and coppery like pennies and blood  _ red beads on his arm and it stings but the anger  _ his father didn’t even give him a name _ is relentless as a swarm of hornets in his gut.  _

He can feel the snow through his boots as it crunches beneath his heel. The frosty air nips at his skin  _ there’s gonna be a high of 32ºF and low of 29ºF winds at 3 miles per hour if you’re goin’ out be sure to bundle up and watch those icy roads  _ and his dark fur coat hangs off him whipping in the wind. He’s a black stain on a white road  _ Number Four you are proving to be an even deeper disappointment than I could have possibly imagined Shut the fuck up Klaus What are you a girl Why don’t you just leave it’s not like you’re actually doing anything.  _ The skin beneath his kohl-lined eyes is as purple as the plums Allison brought home even though none of them ever got an allowance. He’s too afraid to sleep sometimes  _ you’re going to have to face your fear you must control it  _ because the rotting people with peeled back skin and milked-over eyes always come for him when the poison in his blood wears off. Terror squeezes its gnarled fingers around his erratic heart  _ thumpthumpthumpthump  _ whenever he sees them and he wonders what terrible thing in him makes him see them. He must be rotten on the inside like they are on the outside. Something evil inside of him. Sometimes at night he can see it grinning at him he could see it through them grinning at him through their faces. 

He stands in the center of the bridge staring into the white sky and watching the snow fall. White gathers in his hair and in the fur of his jacket. No cars no people no corpses  _ the needle slides in easily he’s had a lot of practice  _ he’s alone finally and always. He takes a shaky step  _ crunch  _ and steps on the belly of his shadow alive in the stale light of the streetlamps. He considers stepping around it  _ you can’t stand not being the center of attention every second of every day can you  _ but death is here, it’s always followed him around like a curse, so he tramples his shadow’s bones.

He looks over the edge  _ two hundred foot drop _ into the still water as smooth as glass. He won’t escape it  _ the gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a _

_ mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with _

_ some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless _

_ labor  _ so the question therein remains: shall he accept it now or wait? And for what? 

He swings a leg up and stands tall the stone barrier cold and hard beneath his feet. A stepping stone. His shaking fingers hover over the numbers of his scuffed cellphone  _ we’re strangers who grew up in the same house  _ and dials. 

“You have reached the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. If you are in emotional distress or suicidal crisis we're here to help. If you're a U.S. military veteran or current service member, please press one now”  _ mechanic cold calculating machine mother mom  _ “please remain on the line while we route your call to the nearest crisis center in our network.”

“My name is Annabee how can I help you?” 

“I just wanted someone to talk to,” his voice is hoarse and sounds whiny to his own ears. 

“Are you a veteran?           _ pause _          Did you serve in the military?” 

“I don’t know”

“What do you want to talk about?” 

“I don’t know—I”  _ the snow falls sinking into the black water swallowing it up _ “I need help I think” his voice rises like a question. His guts feel like they’re rising up his throat. 

“Are you alone?”

“Yes”

“Could you describe your location? Are you outside or inside?” 

“Outside. It’s—” he looks up “—its snowing. A lot.”

“I love the snow. It’s beautiful.” 

“Yeah,” his voice is high and shaky and the snow in his hair is melting, water dripping down his face. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again everything’s so blurry, like he’s looking through a piece of seaglass. He doesn’t know what to do. The woman’s voice rings through the speaker and he wobbles back. He hadn’t noticed how much he had been leaning over the edge.

I like to ski in the winter I’ve never been much good at it though

I’ve never… 

What about ice skating

I used to come here sometimes to throw rocks in the water. or sticks. kid stuff

Are you cold

Yes

Why don’t you go inside

My place is far away

Do you want me to send someone to get you

No the roads haven’t been plowed yet  _ resolve lights the wick of his new confidence  _ I’m sorry for calling I wasted your time

Sir I think it might be a good idea for me to send someone where are you did you say the roads havent been plowed yet and yes hes near a bodyofwatertheroadshaventbeenplowedyetsendpoliceandambulancetobyrambridgepleasehesnot—

The phone slips from his hand falling two hundred feet to the water below.

It disappears so easily. 

_ If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition, and is bound to the same repeating fate over and over again. _

It’s so, so, cold. His hands shake at his sides. His hair is plastered to his forehead, loose curls dangling in front of his eyes as he peers down into the depths. He has been bruised and bruised again for too long, jagged scars covering every inch of his soul. Here he is—a junkie with nothing to his name except used needles and few bags of pills and powder at the bottom of his coat pockets—mired in a bog of addiction into which he walked willfully. The water is welcoming. Far more welcoming than the path he’s been following his whole life. How easy it would be, to sink until a roof of water concealed him from everything he’s been running away from. 

There’s a noise behind him and it’s like he’s being reeled back from the edge again, swaying on unstable legs. 

“Klaus.” 

He looks over his shoulder at the sound of his name, the fur of his jacket brushing his chin. He’s almost completely soaked through.

“Hi Diego,” a crooked smile spreads across his face when he sees his crime-fighting vigilante brother. Diego is standing a few feet away, his black outfit contrasting starkly against the white snow  _ we should have a secret handshake we can do after missions it’ll be fun  _ he’s glad to see him. Diego walks over slowly, placing a hand on the stone wall near Klaus’ boot.

“What are you doing?” Despite the cold, sweat glistens on his forehead like he ran all the way there.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Klaus’ head tips back and he looks utterly exhausted, voice hollow with defeat.

“Here,” Diego extends a hand. Klaus hesitates, gaze drifting back to the drop. Fear clouds Diego’s mind when, for a split second, it looks like Klaus is about to drop off the precipice. When his brother takes ahold of his hand an immense weight lifts from his shoulders. He helps him down, letting Klaus lean on him as he puts one shaky leg in front of the other. They end up sitting on the road in the snow, backs against the stone wall.

When Klaus curls in on himself, gasping breaths building into tortured sobs, Diego has no idea what to do. Nothing he says could erase the decades of damage they were put through. The mistakes they made. 

Klaus’ hands are in his hair, bony fingers pulling at his long curls. Diego grasps his wrists as gently as he can, incapable of watching his brother hurt himself like this. The sleeve of his ragged fur coat slips down his scrawny, paper white arm. Diego inhales sharply, immediately looking away when he sees the track marks.

Diego doesn’t know what to say—he’s never been very good with words—so he wraps his arms around Klaus’ thin shoulders in a solid, anchoring bear hug he hopes brings his brother even the slightest semblance of comfort. The wracking cries slow until, after enough time has passed, the only sound on the bridge is the faraway city traffic. The brothers hang on to one another in the snow, as if they were about to be torn apart.  

“How did you know?” Klaus asks eventually. When Diego raises a brow he clarifies, “how did you know it was me?”

“I didn’t,” Diego answers honestly. “But I also didn’t know it  _ wasn’t _ you.”

“Thank you,” Klaus whispers, and they wait, huddled together under the falling snow until flashing lights paint the air.


End file.
